


It's a good life, Scott.

by Ship_theboybands



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Gen, Kira wants to stab Malia with a fork, OMG so much angst, Post Season 3, Scott acts like an asshole bc he is saaaaddd, Scott is not a happy bunny, Stiles has an eating disorder, but a happy ending i promise, i have a lot of feelings about scott mccall, melissa is perfect, well sort of happy???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:05:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ship_theboybands/pseuds/Ship_theboybands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott reckons he’s got plenty of reasons to smile. </p>
<p>(A week in the life of Scott McCall)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a good life, Scott.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, we lost wifi and I have a lot of feelings about Scott McCall. This was supposed to be a drabble, but now it's 7k of pain and other emotions. Enjoy!
> 
> ps big love to WhatWouldMrsWeaslyDo for beta-ing

Scott reckons he’s got plenty of reasons to smile. 

He thinks his life might not be the easiest, but it’s not the worst, either. And at least he has one to complain about.

He made a list, in fact, of his reasons to smile, and stuck it on his mirror. So every morning when he drags himself out of bed, wondering why he bothers, he looks at it.

He looks at his reasons to smile, and he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks at his hollow cheeks, and the bags under his eyes, and he _forces_ his lips to pull tight across his teeth, and up in the corners. He crinkles his eyes, scrunches his nose a little, and he smiles by sheer force of will. 

The list is long, and written in a rainbow of colours- ranging from crayons, to felt tips, to sparkly gel pens. He highlighted some of the most important ones in bright shades, and put stickers around the edges of the page like a border. He even printed off pictures of all the people important to him who are still breathing, and tacked them around the frame of his mirror.

1

So he wakes up on Monday at 7:30 to the sounds of his favourite radio presenter wishing him a good morning, followed by an upbeat pop song which promises Scott that it’s a beautiful life. And the sun blares through his window, warming his feet where they poke out the bottom of his blankets, and he takes it upon himself to smile.

He pushes himself into an upright position with trembling arms, not leaving any time to consider suffocating himself with his pillow, because anything would be better than walking through those school doors, surrounded by ghosts at every turn. He can’t let himself think like that. Why on earth would he think something like that?

So, he pushes himself up, smile still painted on his lips, and springs out of bed in an exaggerated fashion. He skips over to his window, pulls it open far enough for him to be able to lean out, and shouts loud enough for the neighbors to hear:

“GOOD MORNING, BEACON HILLS!”

He closes his eyes, listens to the birds chattering, imagines them all opening up their beaks and replying:

“GOOD MORNING, SCOTT McCALL!”

He closes the window again, and turns up the radio a little, before taking his phone off the nightstand. He texts Kira good morning, and sends Stiles a Snapchat of himself pulling a face, before calling his Mom. He pads across to the bathroom while the phone rings and doesn’t allow any panic or worry to crawl up his throat while he waits for her to pick up. Instead, he sets the phone on speaker and washes his face with cold water.

“Hey Honey!” His Mom says, voice light and airy, and Scott doesn’t think about the underlying worry that’s still evident in her voice. “How you doing?” she asks, aiming for casual. Scott doesn’t think about how she misses the mark completely.

“Hey Mom, I’m doing _goooood_.” He grins, getting his toothbrush and loading it with toothpaste. He hears his Mom chuckle, and there’s a little less of the tension he usually ignores in her voice when she next speaks.

“Great.” Scott can hear her smile, can make out her steady heartbeat without even having to try, “I’m at work now, there wasn’t too much traffic. And Shelly’s back, so I’ll be home in time to cook Mac and Cheese tonight,” she continues, and Scott can hear the normal sounds of the hospital in the background. 

“Awesome!” he says, and tells himself how excited he is about having dinner with his Mom. 

“Listen, I gotta go sweetie, have fun at school and send Stiles my love.” She sounds a little distracted, like someone might be waiting to speak to her.

“Of course, see you tonight, Love you!” He says, a little rushed.

“I love you too, Scott,” She replies before hanging up, and Scott throws himself into the task of vigorously brushing his teeth before he can think about anything. 

He brushes for two minutes, listening to the radio and dancing a little around the bathroom, sending Stiles another snapchat, this one of him looking startled with white foam around his mouth captioned: ‘can werewolves get rabies??’. He laughs to himself, and uses banana mouth wash. He sends Lydia a text wondering if there’s a scientific reason for why banana flavoured things taste so different to actual bananas. 

He shoots himself one last grin and a wink in the mirror before he’s shedding his boxers and jumping into the shower. He’s taken to jumping straight in instead of waiting for the water to warm up first, because the cold water wakes up his joints better. He takes a sharp intake of breath when the cold water hits him, before he’s chuckling at himself. The water warms quickly and he puts his head under the spray, when suddenly a song he knows comes onto the radio. He cheers into the empty bathroom, and starts singing along enthusiastically. He uses banana scented soap he bought when he and Lydia went shopping for his Mom’s birthday gift, and smiles at the memory. 

He shampoos, and conditions, setting himself the task of finishing showering before the song’s over, and does a little victory dance when he manages to get out while it’s still on the last chorus.  
His towel is fluffy and warm when he picks it up off the radiator and he hears his phone ping. There’s a snapchat from Stiles of him deadpan while his Dad cracks up behind him with the caption: ‘at least someone thinks you’re funny’ and a reply from Kira consisting of 3 different colours of love heart emojis and a smiley face. He laughs out loud at the response from Stiles and smiles fondly at the text from Kira, because that’s how Scott should and will react. 

He pulls on some clothes, making sure the colours don’t clash, like Lydia insisted on showing him. He’s looking for a something to go over his dark grey tee and smiles when he pulls out a red hoodie with fur in the hood. _Perfect_ , he thinks, before a painful memory surfaces of a beautiful girl wearing it, looking so small and delicate as the moonlight made her pale skin appear luminescent. He closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. He listens, searching for the sound of Stiles’s jeep, and thinks it sounds about fifteen minutes away. So he folds up the jacket, pushes it to the back of his closet, and pulls on a bright blue jumper instead. He tells himself it looks better than the red anyway.

He pockets his phone, pulls his backpack over his shoulder, and finally turns to himself in the full length mirror. He reads the list to himself quietly, takes a minute to look carefully at each of the pictures, and gives himself a blinding grin in the mirror. He tells himself he means it.

 

The ride to school is fun. Scott pretends Stiles doesn’t look any thinner than he did the last time he saw him, just yesterday, and instead compliments him on his shirt. Stiles gives a witty comeback, and grabs one of the bagels that Scott prepared last night, complaining about the inevitability of Scott getting peanut butter on the dashboard, followed by a wink and a _Thanks, though, seriously. You don’t have to make me breakfast_  
And Scott shruggs, grins, asks Stiles what he’d do without him. He doesn’t think about the answer to that question, because if it wasn’t for Scott, Stiles would probably be a little less pale. His laughs would sound a little more real. He would have probably eaten the bagel. Scott turns up the radio, instead.

 

School is fun. Scott pretends that every corner he turns doesn’t remind him of her, and that every step doesn’t feel like he’s walking through a graveyard. He smiles at Malia, and Danny, and makes a beeline for Kira’s locker, Stiles smirking, slapping him on the back, and telling him he’ll see him around.

He sends Isaac a text while he waits for Kira, even though he knows he won’t get a reply. He tells himself it’s because Isaac’s busy at his new school, with his new friends, having a good time.

Kira sneaks up on him, and he laughs a little too loud while his heart slows down, and he forces the change away, digging human nails into his palms, focusing on the pain. He tries to be subtle, but she notices, looks guilty. He kisses it away, forces his fingers to loosen up so he can brush a hand through her hair. She smells like oranges and flowers.

Scott tells himself that underneath it she only smells of worry because they’re late for class.

They all sit together at lunch, Stiles, Malia, Kira, Lydia and himself, and Scott resolutely  
think about how quiet it is without Isaac, or--

“Yo, Stiles, can I have half your cookie, since I made you that awesome bagel?” Scott asks, and Stiles looks up from where he’d been awkwardly poking at his sandwich, like if he stared long enough it would start to look appetising.

“Sure, Bud.” He grins, breaking off way more than half and passing it over to Scott. He feels a little bad for bringing attention to Stiles’s lunch without making a direct comment. He tells himself it’s because there’s nothing to comment on, while Lydia glares at him before turning to Stiles and clearing her throat.

“You gonna eat that?” she says softly, but it’s far too blatant, not sensitive enough. Scott thinks that as much as Lydia is lovely and charming, and her heart’s in the right place, she lacks tact. That’s one of the things she needed _her_  
for. She’s gone now, though, so Stiles is making a lame excuse and leaving, his tray still on the table, meal untouched. Malia follows him, but she’s been a fucking coyote for 7 years, so Scott doubts she’ll handle the situation much better. He should, and could, follow. 

But he just can’t think negatively right now, because he’s been doing so  
recently. He’d probably just end up shouting at Stiles, or something, telling him to _try harder, goddamit_  
because if Scott can stay positive, why can’t Stiles?

The logical part of his brain tells him, of course, that Stiles was possessed by an evil spirit and can still remember everything it did as if he’d done it himself. 

Another logical part tells him that Scott’s lying to himself by pretending he’s happy, but he shushes it.

Kira gives him a disappointed look, and follows after Malia and Stiles. 

“You know, the whole banana flavouring thing probably has something to do with the texture of actual bananas,” Lydia says after a beat, obviously taking pity on him, and Scott looks up, offering her a grateful smile.

“Yeah?” he says, interested. She nods, starts talking science, and Scott soaks it up. Stiles doesn’t return with the others, but Scott’s head’s too full of facts for him to worry.

 

Lacrosse is fun. It starts raining halfway through practice, and he throws himself completely into the game. He slams into Greenberg way too hard, and distantly thinks he should feel bad about it.

“Sorry, man,” he says tiredly, and is surprised at the sound of his own voice. Toneless and distant.

“Yeah, you sure sound it,” Greenberg retorts sarcastically, “maybe if you stopped moping for half a second and thought about someone other than your sorry self for a change, you woulda noticed me,” he sneers, shouldering past Scott towards where Coach is violently blowing his whistle. 

Scott thinks for one horrifying moment about giving in to his anger, turning into a wolf, and ripping Greenberg’s throat out with his claws. The urge is so strong, and the picture so vivid, Scott thinks he’s going to throw up.

Coach gives him suicides, and the irony suddenly strikes him as he’s running his tenth lap without stopping, Coach screaming at him to slow down, his teammates rushing to try and get him to stop. He’s laughing by the time they do, hysterical and wild, his whole body on fire with the ache of running so fast for so long. Because there he is, running _suicides_  
when all he can think about, all day long, in the back of his fucked up little head, is putting a wolfsbane bullet through his brain.

 

Dinner with his Mom is fun. He runs up to his bedroom and locks the door when she tries to talk to him about what happened on the lacrosse pitch. 

 

He thinks, distantly, that punching the mirror was a bad idea. Mirrors are expensive, and so is cleaning blood out of the carpet, and he gives his Mom enough stress without that too.

But the thing is, _the thing is_  
that Scott’s smile looks like a grimace. And actually, _actually_  
he’s fucking kidding himself calling it a smile.

The list is bullshit, and his morning routine is bullshit, and staying positive is bullshit because Boyd and Erica are dead, and his Dad’s left town, and Stiles isn’t eating right, and Lydia wanders the halls on her own like a ghost, and Malia doesn’t know what’s going on, and it’s insulting when she acts like she understands. Kira’s trying her best, but half the Sheriff’s department and hospital staff were murdered by Oni previously controlled by her weird, hundred year old Mom. And Scott’s own Mom is always tired, and Stiles’s Mom is dead, and Derek’s whole family is dead, and Isaac has dropped off the face of the fucking earth for all anyone knows, and Scott is a _**WEREWOLF**_. 

He’s a _fucking creature of the night_  
And everything, he realises -while he watches the glass of the mirror splinter, and feels the distant stabbing pain in his knuckles, hears his Mom banging on the door, and the rain pounding relentlessly outside- is always going to  
for him. He’s always going to be hunted, and he’s always going to get hurt, and the people he loves are always going to get hurt and ALISON IS DEAD.

And _Alison_ , is _dead_

He lets his Mom through the door, and opens his mouth to apologise for the mirror, when suddenly he’s crying. Ugly, loud sobs, snot running down his nose, toddler tantrum crying. He’s running into her arms like a child, and then screaming into her shoulder, and then screaming at her, and then apologising to her, over and over, like the only three words he knows are _I’m so sorry_.

2

The call from Derek is what wakes him up on Tuesday. He’d turned off his usual alarm when it woke him up at the usual time before his favourite radio presenter could wish him a good morning and had lain staring at the plain white ceiling thinking about death untill he fell asleep again, so it’s at about 12:30 that the phone call wakes him. He hears the boring dial tone which he set for Derek and doesn’t feel cold dread drop into his stomach like he knows it he should. If anything, he’s a little excited.

“Hello?” he says groggilly into the phone, staring up at the ceiling again.

“Scott, it’s Derek, I think we have a problem,” he replies urgently, “There’s a new family of hunters moving into town, and they’re bad. Seem to think Argent’s not fit for the job, anymore. Their family name is Baxter, and they-”

“Hold on a second,” Scott yawns, sitting up slowly, “can we do this in person when I’m fully awake?”

“Wait a second, you just woke up? Why aren’t you at school?” Derek asks, his voice more accusing than worried.

“Aw, Derek, I didn’t know you cared,” Scott replies sarcastically, avoiding the question, “Meet me at Hale house in about an hour. I’ll bring the others.”

He hangs up before Derek can complain.

 

Scott drags himself out of bed, pulls on a random set of clothes out of the bottom of his wardrobe, brushes his teeth, and leaves.

He’s got a text from his Mom, asking if he’s okay, why he didn’t call, and Scott tells her he’s fine.

There’s another one from Stiles, saying he can’t give him a lift into school today, which Scott thinks is lucky.

He sends out a mass text to Kira, Stiles and Lydia to meet at Hale house. He hovers, for a second, over Malia’s name before deciding to stick with his gut. He doesn’t trust her.

 

His Mom’s taken the car to work, obviously, so Scott takes his bike. The sky is vast, and grey, and it looks like it might rain any second. Part of Scott hopes it does, likes the idea of racing through a few puddles, feeling the cold stab at his skin. He ignores it, focussing on the hum of the bike engine, going 20 over the limit. This is what he needs. A new threat, something to focus on, to work towards.

He knows, obviously, that someone is probably going to die. The smallest, quietest part of his brain wishes for it to be him.

 

He rounds the corner of the street which leads him directly into the woods, and drives in circles round the woods while he waits for the others to finish school and show up. He doesn’t want to be alone with Derek. He knows it’s totally irrational and stupid, but he’s always going to hate Derek.

He parks his bike against a tree when he hears the distant sound of Lydia’s car pulling up outside Hale house. He focuses in on the heartbeats, and frowns when he hears three. One for Lydia, one for Kira, but who’s the third? Is Stiles unable to drive, now?

The mystery is solved when he emerges into the small clearing which surrounds Derek’s burnt old house, and sees Malia leaning against the bonnet of Lydia’s car like she has every right to be there.

“Where’s Stiles?” Scott asks, instead of ‘What’s she doing here?’.

“I don’t know, he hasn’t been at school today. I guess he’s sick,” Kira shrugs, eyeing Scott carefully like she thinks he might explode if she says the wrong thing.

“Maybe he’s starved himself to death,” Scott shrugs, hearing the harshness of his words like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. He doesn’t have time to think about his best friend’s problems. He has his own problems.

“Scott!” Kira gasps, a hurt, surprised look washing over her features, and Scott scoffs. Whatever, she barely even knows Stiles.

“Where’ve you been all day, anyway?” Lydia glares at him from where she’s perched on the car next to Malia.

“You know me, always busy with something,” Scott brushes her off. “Why isn’t Derek here yet?”

As if on cue, Derek skulks out from the shadows, and Scott rolls his eyes.

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek asks.

“Sick,” Malia says quickly, before Scott can say anything stupid. It’s the first thing she’s said the whole time they’ve been here.

“And why are you here?” Derek asks, eyebrow raised like the asshole he is.

“Figured if someone’s hunting werewolves, the stretch to werecoyote isn’t that far. Might as well help out until Scott can show me how to turn back into a coyote for real,” she shrugs, reeking of confidence.

Derek hesitates for a moment, looking her over. Scott thinks he’s probably wishing Erica, Isaac, and Boyd were still here.

“Fine,” Derek snaps, facing the rest of them, “The hunters are probably going to already know about me, because of my last name and all. They’ll have looked up the history of the fire, and come looking for me and Peter-”

“Where is Peter?” Lydia interrupts, and Derek looks slightly more pissed off than his usual pissed off expression.

“He’s- I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for about a month.” He sighs, averting his gaze, and Scott almost laughs. Of course Derek would keep this tidbit of information to himself until now.

“Anyway, they’ll know about me, but probably not Scott or Malia. I don’t know how hunters feel about banshees but Argent seems to think they’ll leave you be,” he says to Lydia, before she’s cutting him off again.

“Where’s Chris?” she asks, and Derek shoots her a full on bitch face.

“I don’t know, probably at home since Scott here didn’t invite him,” he grumbles.

“Sorry, I don’t have the number of the guy who’s threatened to kill me on several occasions!” Scott says sarcastically, holding his hands up in mock surrender, and he knows that’s not fair. He know’s Argent’s a good man, and one of the only adults he can really trust in all this, but whatever, he doesn’t care anymore.

“Why are you being such an asshole?” Lydia snaps, and all the girls are looking at him like he kicked their puppy. He shrugs.

“I dunno, maybe I’ve always been an asshole, and the deaths of people I care about are just bringing it out in me,” he muses, “maybe I’m making up for the fact that Stiles isn’t here to say wildly inappropriate things and get away with it, but my sarcasm isn’t strong enough.”

“Whatever,” Derek shoots him a confused look, before continuing. “Anyway, Scott and Malia keep your heads down. They have a son a few years younger than you who’s probably going to be joining your school. Be careful what you say around him.” He directs this last part to Scott, and he feels a sudden anger begin to boil in his veins.

“I’ll try not to fall in love with him, if Lydia doesn’t make him her new best friend,” Scott snipes, before he’s standing up to leave. “That all?” he asks, surveying the emotions splayed across his friends’ faces. Lydia actually looks like she might cry.

“What the fuck, Scott?” she yells, but her voice wavers.

“I’m done caring,” he replies calmly, only then realising how much he truly believes the words he’s saying, “I’m done sacrificing myself for the good of the town, I’m done chasing you all round, trying to fix everyone’s problems. I’m done caring about people, and I’m done losing people, and I’m just done, okay?” He doesn’t raise his voice once.

“Is that why you haven’t even tried to talk to Stiles?” Lydia matches his calm voice, taking a step towards him with a cold expression on her face, “We’re all hurting, Scott, Okay? This sucks for everyone, but we have to take care of each other.”

“Guess you have one less person to worry about,” Scott smirks, before he bolts, turning away from her, from all of them, and running deep into the forest. 

 

He’s staring up at the grey sky, back in the mud, trees overhead, with his finger hovering over Stiles’s contact information. He doesn’t call. Scott is an asshole, piece of crap friend. He always has been, and he always will be, and maybe Stiles is too. Maybe they’ll both be better off without each other. He sends him a quick text: ‘won’t need a lift in’, and hopes it’s obvious that this is Scott cutting off their friendship. It’s for the best.

He crawls into bed, covered in mud, after a tense meal with his Mom where they talked without actually saying anything. He presses his face deep into his pillow, and thinks of nothing.

3

Scott wakes up on Wednesday at the usual time to the sound of his radio alarm. He shuts it off, just as quickly as he had the day before, but swings his feet over the edge of the bed and gets ready for school.

He takes his bike to school, and decides he can worry about gas money later.

His friends are all ignoring him, which makes it easier for Scott to ignore them. He eats lunch on a table with some of his Lacrosse friends, and Danny gives him a weird look. Scott glances over at his usual table long enough to notice that Stiles isn’t there, but he also tells himself he doesn’t care.

He’s tuned out to most of the conversation when he suddenly hears something that catches his attention.

“Wait, what did you just say?” he asks Danny, who looks surprised but repeats himself anyway.

“Just that I heard some Junior named Oliver Baxter got onto the Lacrosse team, and Coach won’t shut up about how great he is,” he says, and Scott’s eyes widen.

“Is he here today?” Scott asks, suddenly alert.

“Don’t worry, I doubt he’ll steal your Captaincy,” Danny laughs, rolling his eyes, but he points him out to Scott.

Oliver Baxter is ridiculously obvious. If you asked Scott to describe his idea of a hunter, after thinking of beautiful girls with swords through their hearts, he would probably describe this guy. He is tall, and lean, muscles obvious through his tight black T-shirt. He has dark skin, and peircing eyes,and looks generally dangerous.

Scott excuses himself quickly and practically throws himself into a seat next to Lydia. She looks confused and pissed off, and like she might say something mean, but Scott speaks over her before she can.

“Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome at six o’clock.” He motions with his head towards Oliver, and sighs when the girls all whip their heads round blatantly.  
“That the Baxter kid?” Kira asks, facing Scott again. She looks like she wants to say something else to him but she doesn’t.

“Yeah. He’s called Oliver, apparently he’s awesome at Lacrosse and Coach is putting him on the team. He must’ve been some kind of sports hero at his last school, because we haven’t even had trials,” he fills them in, “ I hope Coach still puts Stiles on the team,” he adds absently before he realises what he’s saying.

“I thought you didn’t care about Stiles? Or anyone?” Lydia asks curtly, turning back to her lunch.

“You didn’t answer any of my calls,” Kira adds, her hurt look making something turn inside Scott, “I was really worried.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says quickly, before he gets up and leaves.

 

By the time school finishes, Scott already misses his friends. He takes his bike out to the woods, and leaves it in the same place he did yesterday. He runs through the trees, half shifted, all of his senses on full alert so he doesn’t scare the shit out of some dog walker. He has to stop and hide about 5 times, and it’s exhilarating almost getting caught. He finds himself at Hale house without really meaning to go there.

“Scott?” He jumps with surprise. He half expected to find Derek out here, but that was definitely a female voice. He turns slowly towards Kira, and changes back to his human self.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asks, meaning for his words to be cruel and cutting, but they come out small, desperate.

“I saw your bike headed towards the woods and thought I might find you out here,” she replies. She’s sat on the top step of the porch, her feet planted on the one below so her knees are drawn up to her chest.

“Why’d you want to find me?” he asks, and she stands up, looking frustrated.

“Because while I know we haven’t actually put a label on it, I’m pretty sure you’re my Boyfriend, and I haven’t talked to you for two days,” she says, her cheeks colouring a little with embarrassment, but her words are firm.

“I’m sorry, I guess.” He winces a little, and it’s obviously not the response she was hoping for.

“You’re sorry, you guess?” she repeats, “what the hell is going on with you? You skip school, text us to meet you here, and suddenly you’re this detached asshole who doesn’t care about anyone?”  
“Yeah, I guess,” Scott shrinks in on himself a little.

“Well stop fucking guessing, okay, and just tell me how you really feel,” she shouts, storming up to him like she can force a heartfelt conversation out of him by sheer determination alone.

“Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore,” Scott shouts back, wolf claws piercing through his skin. She doesn’t seem to notice before she’s bursting into tears. Scott can’t watch her cry, so he runs away into the trees.

 

Scott gets in at about midnight, and his Mom is waiting up for him at the table. He’d turned off his phone the first time she tried to call him, and she looks pale and sick with worry.

“Sweetheart!” she gasps when she sees him, relief rolling off here in waves. “What happened? Was it something supernatural?” she asks, pulling him into a tight hug. “Stiles wasn’t picking up either, so I assumed something must have-”

“It wasn’t anything supernatural,” Scott says sharply, cutting her off, and she pulls back from him.

“Then… what happened?” she asks, her forehead crumpling with concern.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, turning away from her and opening the fridge.

She gasps, and Scott smells the anger on her before he hears it.

“Then where the HELL have you been?” she yells, and Scott schools his expression, tells himself he doesn’t care.

“Running. Out in the woods.” He shrugs, closing the fridge and moving over to the cupboards to look for something to eat. “Thinking,” he finishes, pulling out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.

“You’ve been… I was so worried.” She shakes her head in disbelief, “I thought something awful must have happened!” 

“Awful things happen all the time, Mom, all over the world.” Scott starts preparing his sandwich, speaking as he would to a small child who didn’t understand something. “People get sick, people die, babies cry, the world moves on. It doesn’t stop. Not when your friends die, or when your best friend gets sick, or when the first girl you ever loved is stabbed through with a fucking sword. It goes on, and you have to go on with it. You have to worry about school work, and keep your grades up, and pretend to be happy. You have to eat Mac and Cheese, and colour coordinate your clothes, because the only other option is killing yourself.” He looks up at her then, forces out a laugh, and knows it sounds hysterical, “and it’s really fucking hard to kill a werewolf!” 

Her face turns through a series of emotions, and Scott watches, fascinated, as she seems to feel about ten different things at once. Scott feels nothing.

“Stiles is sick?” she settles on saying, and Scott is so shocked by her response that he nods, has to swallow past a lump in his throat.

“Not eating,” Scott whispers, putting his sandwich down on the table, feeling his resolve crumble already.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Melissa says slowly, quietly. Scott wonders if she’s afraid of him. He shakes his head.

“I don’t know what to say to him, Mom,” he says earnestly, and this really isn’t how he’d planned for this conversation to go, “I don’t know what to say to any of them.” 

His voice is quiet and uneven. Tears roll down his cheeks before he notices them gathering in his eyes, and he curses himself, because this wasn’t the plan. He’s not supposed to care anymore.

His mother steps forward slowly, hesitantly, and opens her arms to him. He lets himself be held, and weeps.

4

Scott wakes up on Thursday to the sound of his Mom knocking gently on the door. A quick look at his phone tells him it’s 5:30, and his Mom should be heading off to work. He immediately assumes the worst, and springs out of bed, pulling the door open with his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

“Mom, what’s up?” he asks, putting his arms out to her shoulders instinctively.

“Nothing, sweetheart, I was just heading out to work and I wanted to make sure you got up,” she says gently, placing one of her hands over his on her shoulder.

“Oh,” he says, breathing heavily, “oh.”

“See? It’s no fun when you think something awful’s happened.” She jabs him in the stomach with her thumb, but there’s no real spite to her words.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, and means it.  
“I know you are,” she sighs, looks at him a little sympathetically. She puts her hand on his cheek and runs a thumb under his eye, like she’s wiping away a phantom tear, “I didn’t just wake you up to make sure you went to school though,” she continues, a little sternly.

“Huh?” he asks.

“I really think you should talk to Stiles,” she insists without hesitation, and Scott averts his gaze. “I talked to the sheriff, and it sounds like he could really use a friend right now. And I know you could use one too.”

Scott nods, without making eye contact.

“Scott,” she sighs, a little impatiently, “promise me you’ll go see him.”

He hesitates.

“Why don’t you want to see him?” his Mom asks, staring at his face like if she looks long enough she might find answers. He meets her gaze, then, and feels the worry he’s caused her like a kick to the stomach.

“Because it’s my fault,” Scott whispers, barely audible, and his mother pulls him to her.

“None of this is your fault,” she says, fiercely. Scott pretends to believe her.

 

It rains on the drive to Stiles’s. His Mom gives him a lift on the way to work, and they drive in uncomfortable silence. Scott doesn’t want to see Stiles, or Stiles’s Dad, and his Mom knows this.

Melissa drops him off right outside the house and he runs up to the door and knocks before he loses his nerve. 

He was expecting the sheriff to answer. He was hoping the sheriff would answer. Instead, Stiles is standing there. He’s white as a sheet, hair sticking to his forehead with grease. The bags under his eyes look like bruises in comparison to his pale skin, and the wind whips his baggy t-shirt taut against his impossibly thin waist. Scott realises, with a bone crushing sadness, that there’s barely anything left of him.

“Scott?” Stiles asks, eyes wide and full of emotion. His face is so open, showing everything he’s feeling like he’s got nothing to hide from Scott.

“Stiles,” Scott says, and his voice cracks on the name. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s pulling Stiles easily into his arms. He’s so light, and small, and Scott’s scared that if he hugs him too hard he might break in half.

Stiles doesn’t complain. He just brings his shaking arms up around Scott’s back and squeezes him.

 

They sit on Stiles’s bed in awkward silence. Stiles picks at a loose thread on his pillow, and Scott looks around at his disheveled bedroom. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, with them. It’s never been awkward, and they’ve always known what to say, and Stiles is his best friend, goddammit, how did it get this way?

“You’ve been here the past few days?” Scott asks, breaking the silence.

“Um, yeah. My Dad, um...” Stiles coughs suddenly, the force of it shaking his whole body. Scott wonders if he might shatter. “My Dad noticed that I haven’t been eating so well, and he tried to take me to the hospital. I said I’d eat dinner if he promised not to take me but it didn’t…” He trails off, looking at the ground, “He’s convinced I’ve got swine flu, or something.” A humourless laugh falls out of his cracked lips. 

“Oh,” Scott says dumbly, biting his lip.

“How come you never asked me about it? Or called?” Stiles says suddenly, looking up at Scott. 

Scott thinks about running away. He thinks about getting up off the bed, slamming the door, and leaving Stiles alone in his misery. He realises, then, that he is a total dick.

“I was scared,” Scott admits, surprising himself, “I was scared, and guilty, because it’s my fault.”

Stiles’ eyes go impossibly wider.

“It’s not… none of this is your fault Scott. It’s not anyone’s fault,” He shuffles a little closer to Scott.

“If I hadn’t got you involved in all this-” Scott starts but Stiles cuts him off.

“Don’t. Don’t start talking about _what if_ s, okay, because if I hadn’t dragged you off into the woods to look for the body, you wouldn’t even be a werewolf.” He stares Scott down until he looks up, making eye contact. Stiles’s eyes are set and determined.

“You’re my best friend in the whole world,” Scott starts, and then he’s crying. 

There’s more he wants to say, about how sorry he is, and what a shitty friend he’s been. He wants to thank Stiles for always being so fiercely loyal, and to tell him everything’s going to be ok. That they’ll take him to the hospital, and he’ll get better, and come home. He wants to ask him to skip school and play video games all day, to hide away from the hunters and the Hales, and just make a blanket fort and eat junk food forever. Instead, he leans into Stiles’s embrace, and lets it go unspoken.

“I’m never going to let you down like this again,” he promises into Stiles’s shoulder, and Stiles nods.

 

Neither of them go to school, because Stiles can’t and because Scott isn’t going to leave him on his own. He makes Stiles take a shower and put on clean clothes.

They end up playing video games, and Scott lets Stiles win. After Stiles has won his fifth game in a row, he turns to Scott.

“Do you ever think about moving?” he asks, fingers fiddling idly with his game controller.

“You mean away from Beacon Hills?” Scott replies, eyebrows drawing together.

“No, I mean closer to Greenberg’s house,” Stiles retorts sarcastically, and it startles an almost laugh out of Scott.

“I guess I feel like it’s my responsibility, you know?”

“Because we opened the Nemeton?”

“Kind of that… but also because, while being a werewolf sucks sometimes, it also means I have a lot of power. If I can protect people, and fight away the bad things, surely I have a moral obligation to do that,” he says slowly, not entirely sure he’s saying the right thing, “I feel like I’m putting my foot in my mouth.”

“No, I get it. With great power, comes great responsibility,” Stiles quips, and Scott throws a pillow at him. He dodges it, laughing. “Jokes aside, I agree with you. It’s like how even though I’m a squishy human, I’ll still always help you out with supernatural stuff. Because I know that it’s happening, so I feel like I have to help the people who don’t.” 

He leaves a beat of quiet, then, like he’s considering what he’s about to say next. The music from the video game sounds distant, all of a sudden, like he and Stiles are in their own little bubble, having this conversation. 

“I think, if there’s one thing we can do to respect her,” Stiles continues, finally breaking the silence, and Scott knows who he’s talking about without having to ask, “It’s to keep her code.”

 

The Sheriff calls home at about 9:00 pm to say he might have to work late. When Stiles tells him Scott’s over, he seems to relax. Scott and Stiles get all the pillows and blankets they can find, and put them on the floor of Stiles’s bedroom like they’re five years old, and when Stiles clicks off the light they’re back in that bubble again.

 

“I’m so scared to go back to school, but I think if I don’t my Dad’ll send me to hospital. I don’t want to be locked up in some ward.”

 

“I think all the girls hate me, because I’ve been acting like a total asshole since Tuesday.”

 

“I know there’s something wrong with me, but I don’t know how to get better.”

 

“My Mom always looks at me like I’m so fragile.”

 

“Same with my Dad.”

 

“I made a list of things I should smile about, and I taped it to my mirror, but it doesn’t work.”

 

“I’m always so terrified that the nogitsune’s going to come back, somehow, and find me.”

 

“I think I blame Derek for the things I’m too scared to admit were my fault.”

 

“I have nightmares every night.”

 

“I’m so sad all the time. Sometimes I think about killing myself.”

 

“I threw up my dinner on purpose. I hated it. I don’t want to die.”

 

“I don’t want you to die.”

 

“I don’t want you to die, either.”

 

“... I don’t think I do, either.”  
5

 

Scott wakes up on Friday to the sound of Stiles’s alarm clock ringing in a generic pattern. He groans, and throws a hand out to turn it off. It ends up hitting Stiles in the face, who wakes with a start and then kicks him in the stomach.

 

Scott doesn’t bother with breakfast, unsure of whether it would make Stiles feel uncomfortable or not. He’s not sure if he’s doing the right thing, if he should be forcing Stiles to go to the hospital. 

They jump into the Jeep, though, like they’ve done a hundred times before, and like they’ll do a thousand times again, and Scott feels something settle inside him at the familiarity of Stiles threatening him with a disturbingly vivid description of decapitation if he tries to change the radio station. They drive to some rock song Scott doesn’t like that much, while Stiles mimes every word. He’s not belting it out like he should be, but it’s something.

 

Scott approaches the lunch table slowly and carefully, like he might a sleeping gorilla. Lydia fixes him with a glare the second she sees him, and Stiles gives him a ‘gentle’ push which sends him stumbling up to the table. Kira and Malia notice him too, then, and fix him with equally wounding looks.

“I’m really sorry,” Scott says, pathetically, “Like, really, really, unbelievably sorry.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow before turning to Stiles and motioning for him to sit down next to her. He does so, gratefully, and leaves Scott stood on his own to face them.

“He talked to you?” Lydia asks Stiles, fixing him with a much gentler expression, her voice still stern. Stiles nods enthusiastically, and Lydia makes a thoughtful sound.

“Are you done being a total asshole?” Kira asks, her expression stony.

“Yeah, I promise.” He tries to put as much earnest into his voice as possible.

“And you admit that you were an asshole?” she counters.

“The biggest asshole ever. Worse than Greenberg.”

“You should cut Greenberg some slack,” Kira huffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Sit down then, jerk,” Lydia sighs, and Scott takes his seat.

 

Kira still looks a little pissed at him, and Stiles predictably hasn’t even touched his food. Scott still doesn't trust Malia, Isaac still isn’t talking to anyone, Oliver Baxter is eyeing them suspiciously from the corner of the room, and Peter is still missing. Scott is still a werewolf, he will still always be hunted, and the people he loves will continue to get hurt. Despite all this, he feels a warm, familiar something burning deep in his chest. 

“I miss Alison,” he says, suddenly, and to no one in particular. 

Everyone looks up at him, mouths hanging open, like they’re all regular teenagers and Scott’s just told them that werewolves are real. No one says anything, so Scott continues, watching an ant crawl over Stiles’s plate.

“I really, really miss her. I wish everyone would stop pretending like she never existed.”

Lydia is the first to speak, her voice wavering- but when Scott looks at her she’s talking through a watery smile.

“Me too, Scott,” she says, and the others nod.

“I never really knew her, but-” Malia starts to say.

“Then shut up,” Kira cuts her off, taking everyone by surprise, “I fought alongside her more than once. She was a hero, a fierce warrior,” she adds, looking determined.

There is an awkward beat of silence, and Scott slides his hand over Kira’s.

“For a while, she was my only other friend besides Scott,” Stiles pipes up unexpectedly, tearing up his napkin with trembling fingers. “I, uh, kind of resented her, because I thought she was stealing Scott away from me but, um.” He coughs slightly, his eyes watering up, “but it was impossible not to like her.” He smiles hesitantly, and Lydia laughs.

“I thought she was going to steal my Queen Bee status,” Lydia says mockingly. “That’s why I befriended her, at first. Know thy enemy, and all that crap. But after one day she’d charmed me.” 

It’s probably weird, talking about her like this. Malia looks uncomfortable, and Kira like she’s refraining from stabbing Malia with a fork. 

Scott feels his lips twitch, of their own accord, into the closest thing he’s felt to a real smile in months.


End file.
